


do you think we'll be in love forever

by doublejoint



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, F/F, Vague premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: There are a few drawbacks to wearing as few clothes as possible, taking a change with her and sneaking out the back of the office in a midriff top and short shorts and the same Manolos she’d worn with the black dress that’s now grimy with sweat and bunched up in her purse.
Relationships: Araki Masako/Alexandra Garcia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	do you think we'll be in love forever

**Author's Note:**

> for clo. this is so so late i apologize
> 
> title from lana del rey's 'diet mountain dew'

Today is the kind of humid where you open all the windows and the air is still too heavy to move, when you hear a drip on the windowsill and hope it means rain but it really means your neighbor’s air conditioning unit is dripping down onto your windowsill, when you turn on your own unit and shut the door and it takes too goddamn long to cool the room off. 

The city’s already halfway emptied out, college students off to their midwestern home states, school kids off at camp or tagging along on their parents’ vacations to somewhere cooler, old people (Alex’s parents included) off to their summer houses in Connecticut or the Hamptons or halfway upstate. Alex looks out her kitchen window at night and all the windows are dark in the building on the other side of the row of brownstones next to hers, not a single working stiff or au pair or even a house-sitter. Alex could be up there with them, take a few vacation days; her parents have offered. But as punishing and gross as it is, washing the dirt caked black off the bottoms of her feet after a long day walking in sandals or pumps, how everything gets stickier than fresh gum on the sidewalk, summer in the city sticks to her. The beaches would be too crowded, too sandy; the countryside would be too quiet. She knows how to deal with this. 

You have to be a masochist to stay here when the weather’s like this. That’s what Masako says, anyway, when the sweat sticks her bangs to her forehead and she’s not moving, and her drink slips in her hands, and she crinkles her nose at the smell of the garbage, or maybe it’s the kids next door out on the terrace smoking Merits, or the underlying hint of weed and used fireworks that just won’t go away. Just because she grew up in Akita (though she refutes Alex’s assertion that it must have been like living in a snowglobe; they weren’t that far north and they actually have summer there) and people there are supposedly decent doesn’t give her license to be a snob; hell, Alex had spent half her childhood in California and she barely even thinks about that. (Though, to be fair to Masako, LA is probably closer to here more than in just pure geography.) 

“You’re the masochist wearing a suit when you don’t have to,” says Alex. 

“I have to,” says Masako.

“Casual Friday,” says Alex. “You can take off your jacket.”

“Do you want me to?” says Masako.

The cuffs of her shirtsleeves are soaked with sweat; if she were to take the jacket off Alex would bet that her back would be soaked through. She could call Masako’s bluff and cut straight through all of this but the air’s too thick to move that fast; she misses her chance, swallowing air. Sweat is gathering below her lip, on her hairline; she wipes her forehead with her bare arm. That maybe makes it worse.

Masako doesn’t laugh, though maybe she should. Alex wouldn’t blame her, wouldn’t even be mad. There are a few drawbacks to wearing as few clothes as possible, taking a change with her and sneaking out the back of the office in a midriff top and short shorts and the same Manolos she’d worn with the black dress that’s now grimy with sweat and bunched up in her purse. 

Happy hour starts at noon at a lot of places but they skip it, straight to Masako’s air-conditioned lobby and the doorman who greets them with barely a nod. The cool air feels really fucking good on Alex’s skin, stopping the beads of sweat from forming, breaking them back down below her skin or wherever they’d come from. Masako’s apartment is warm and stuffy; her window unit is unplugged in the kitchen and she sets it up as Alex rummages in the refrigerator for a chilled bottle of the good stuff.

All of it’s good, really; Alex would expect no less from a sake heiress (well, not entirely; she ought to have a bottle of some really trashy shit somewhere, Rubinoff vodka or some disgusting flavored rum, but if she does she’s managed to keep it hidden from Alex). Masako rolls up her sleeves, searching for glasses in the cupboard. 

“What is that, chardonnay?” 

“Yeah.”

Masako pulls out two stemless wine glasses and uncorks the bottle, flair like that she could be a fucking bartender. Alex doesn’t care that she’s staring until Masako catches her eye as she finishes the pour, and all of a sudden Alex feels criminally underdressed in a way she almost never does, even if she’s in thrift store jeans at a VIP lounge. The linoleum floor is clammy and warm on her bare, dirty feet; the air conditioner hums with its effort to cool the room. Alex shivers, inadvertently pressing her tits together and emphasizing them, and this split second anything resembling a come-on is accidental.

“Do you need a sweater? Or I could warm up some sake instead—”

Alex shakes her head and takes the nearest wine glass, already sweating condensation onto the granite counter. “Just getting used to the A/C.”

It’s a weak lie, but Masako takes it. 

“Maybe we could huddle together for warmth?”

Masako squints at Alex. “You haven’t pregamed an entire bottle of vodka, have you?” 

Alex raises her glass. “To my first drink of the day. And happy Friday.”

She chugs half the glass in one go; it’s so cold and smooth and she’s so thirsty. Masako takes a more delicate sip, but she doesn’t judge.

“But we’re alone,” Alex says, continuing before the alcohol can start hitting her (if that little would have much of an effect), so Masako knows she’s not being a teasing drunk and that she really means this. 

“That’s the point,” says Masako.

When she kisses Alex, one hand is on Alex’s face and the other is on her waistband and Alex would say something about Masako being forward but she wants Masako to be forward, and the clothes she’s wearing don’t allow anything else. And once again, why is Masako wearing a full suit?

“Will you take your jacket off now?”

Masako shrugs it off her arms and folds it neatly over one of the barstools. There are sweat stains across her ribs, under her arms, but when she turns towards the doorway her back is not soaked through. Alex can kind of see the outline of her bra strap, if she squints and leans forward, but Masako’s walking too fast for her to get a really good look. Alex follows her down the hall, toward her bedroom. 

The A/C there is better than the one in the kitchen, works quicker with a less urgent hum, and for a second Alex thinks it won’t matter anyway, that they’ll be a sweaty tangled mess on top of Masako’s clean sheets, but she’s getting ahead of herself. This isn’t the time to space out and think about the what-ifs, because Masako’s unbuttoning her shirt and Alex wants to do it for her. 

“Let me,” she says, already reaching out her hands.

Masako leans back, propping herself up on her hands against the bed; strands of her hair are coming down from her updo and curling at the nape of her neck and fuck, Alex can’t resist leaning in to kiss her jaw as her hands fumble with the buttons, catching the faint smell of her Chanel No. 9 underneath the sweat.

Masako breathes out, a pleased (Alex hopes) puff warm against her skin. Then one of her hands is on Alex’s sweaty waist, the heel against the softest part of her stomach; Alex’s hands stutter on the button and lose it.

“Shit, Masako.” 

Masako scrapes her fingertips upward, and Alex nearly rips the button off. Maybe she should have let Masako do this herself--but the shoulds don’t matter so much as what’s happening, and Alex is going to damn well finish what she started. She pushes Masako down against the bed, and Masako flips her over just before the last button’s finished.

Her eyes are pleased; her bangs are plastered to her forehead. Alex wants to kiss her again, so she does.


End file.
